The Unforgotten
by Rianiel
Summary: A collecton of insights into the minds of those who live in different corners of Middle Earth and how their roles differ in the War of the Ring. Please review, honesty is greaty appreciated.
1. A Rider of Rohan

_Thanks to the following: Virtuella, WendWriter, TelcontarRulz, Jessica Wolf , Belladonna-Isabella, Gogol and Epilachna for their wonderful critique and comments I have taken on board. Thank you all so much. I feel I have improved so much in such a short space of time which really is amazing. God bless x_

* * *

A Rider of Rohan

The hooves of the beast upon whose back I ride seem to beat in rhythm with my heart.

Our vast stretch of army reaches the brow of a towering bank, facing a sea, I will soon be diving into. Past the golden edge of my helmet, I see the orcs gathering their ranks and I feel their many, slit-pupilled eyes observing our arrival closely.

They are worried. I can sense it through the thick, black armour they wear.

A hesitant hush falls on the Rohirrim. The soldiers around me are silent, deathly even. All eyes are intent upon King Théoden, who rides Snowmane regally before us. His golden grey-flecked hair flying under the brim of his helmet, very much like a banner of our army. I feel a rush of fierce pride as he speaks to us like a friend, riding up and down.

The Rohirrim roar their approval. Throats turn raw as we bellow in unison to the one thing we will and do not fear – death. All have faith in our King, who we will follow to whatever end.

Yet I do not wish to find Death so suddenly.

It is a fickle friend. It could be waiting for me at the walls of Minas Tirith by the hammer of an orc. All my life I have lived side by side with Death. I am a warrior, resigned to know His icy summons in battle. But in my heart of hearts, I want to wed a wife to dearly love and see my children grow up. I cannot lose myself in dreams now, however.

The present plunges back as the horns trumpet their haunting tunes into the air, summoning the groups.

I force all concentration to the forefront of my mind, flicking away any stray sandy strands of flyaway hair that may distract me. My hands clench the reigns of my faithful steed, Déorhelm. Sweat from my palms seeping through the bridle.

The moment now comes. We charge.

All is left is for the hand of fate to decide.


	2. A Soldier of Gondor

Constructive criticisim appreciated.

A Soldier of Gondor

I had no time to receive a kiss from my dear wife. Nor give my son his carving of a toy horse I had engraved a month before.

It is with a heavy heart I mount my faithful steed, but as I look upon the figure of Lord Faramir, my fear vanishes. Yet what cannot prepare me is the look of despondency in his eyes. Yet he still moves swiftly and without hesitation.

We are to take back Osgiliath from the masses of orcs and Southrons who linger there. I recall the dramatic and frightening escape from that place to the refuge of Minas Tirith's large gates. The Nazgul swooping low, clawing at our backs. That last glimpse of my friend was his look of pure horror. I push the memory to the back of my mind.

I am now trotting. Slowly trotting through the winding, white streets of the City, already a dead man. People watch us go in silence, carpeting our path with flowers. They know our errand is hopeless. Their faces say it all, grave, observing and still. A young woman catches my eye and she weaves through the crowds to me, clutching a bundle of flowers.

"For luck," is all she says. The roguish, free strands of her hair catching slightly in the wind. She is beautiful and will see the world renewed. Alas my own wife is nowhere to be seen. Though I know why …

"You cannot go," is what she had last said to me. "For once, do not follow this mission. It is suicide. It is folly."

I had ignored her words. I was too headstrong, bred by the rigid callings of duty. And duty I must and will do. I love my leader and will follow him.

Surely I cannot love the Steward? Lord Denethor lost his way ever since our lady passed. But he blessed the City with his two sons, Lord Boromir and Faramir. Alas one which we men have believed to have passed to the Hall of his Father's. I mourn for him; he was a great and courageous warrior.

I am barely aware of the tall gates opening. I trot past on my steed; the flowers are now tucked neatly in a sleeve of my armour. Once out of the City we form a line instructed by Faramir. He nods at me as I ride beside him. Poor boy, is what I only think as I glimpse his hardened, determined face. Is this what he has to do to redeem himself for the ways of a madman? To prove he is as good as his brother?

Now it is too late to ever question the matter. My horse gathers speed and the thunderous pummel of horses' hooves, gallop across the Pelennor Fields toward Osgiliath. I feel the Orcs creeping up from behind the ruins of the City, readying their bows. Yet I feel a furious pleasure as I mercilessly charge my steed onwards, readying myself to slay these creatures. It replaces all fear.

If I am to meet my end, then this is how it is. Beside my Lord, to show that his men still love him.


	3. Variag of Khand

_As ever - Constructive Criticism is much appreciated._

A Variag of Khand

_Crunch crunch crunch._ The chink of metal marches across the land. My feet: tired, blistered and weary, encased in this cruel, metal armour.

The land I look upon holds no charm, no enigmatic view I may find vaguely interesting. Hard stones are what I have been treading. My armour crunching. Inwardly I sniff at such a harsh and unforgiving landscape. Mordor they call it. The place we are summoned to from our homes, which now seem an age away. A calling that we must fight for. A calling we were bred for.

"For the pride of Khand and of Variags," shouted the Chieftain back home before our army. The men roared their sanction. Trumpets blared. I only recall his bald head gleaming in the ruthless sunlight and my body wilting to the heated, strange metal set upon my skin.

"Do it for the pride of our family," is what my mother said. A quiet, docile woman was she. I had nodded and allowed for her to dab my forehead with cold water for luck. Fresh, cool water from the fertile, running rivers of Upper Khand. "Be grateful you are a Variag," she had said also. "We are not heathens like the Ioriag tribes."

Again, I nodded and believed. How wry it is now that I am serving a cause, not of Khand's, but for a devilish deity set in Mordor. Land of Shadow. The Nameless One, summoning all allies he can grab so that then he may hoard the power when it is won. We are no more but heathens to Him.

Power. I have craved it, wanted it and have been influenced by it. A blind man I was. The result is my (being) crunching across this dark land with my fellow soldiers. No turning back. What power are we to gain from this War? Power of renown of great soldiers? Pride for our families? Nothing. I have inherited old prejudices from the Ages, but as I cross these lands, my mind is thinking for itself.

In my darkest hours I know that I have been a fool to be seduced by the power of greatness. And I am powerless to turn back. Now, I will serve as nothing more than a soldier.

And kill what I am told to kill. And hate who they call the enemy.


End file.
